Of Dionysus and Apollo and the Music of Olympus
by all-the-angels
Summary: In a story written by a lonely God of Madness and Wine and love that wasn't true, Dionysus fell in love with Apollo. The shadow of the God of the Sun was far too large, far too dark for him to remain in pursuit of, and he often got lost in the darkness; however, he could rarely discern if the darkness was that of Apollo's or his own shortcomings.


In a story written by a lonely God of Madness and Wine and love that wasn't true, Dionysus fell in love with Apollo. The shadow of the God of the Sun was far too large, far too dark for him to remain in pursuit of, and he often got lost in the darkness; however, he could rarely discern if the darkness was that of Apollo's or his own shortcomings. Dionysus could never reach Apollo in the sky.

If you were to ask Apollo if he were lonely, he would certainly say that it wasn't so; Apollo was always kissed with the warmth of the sun, and where he was it was never night. He would say, "You cannot be lonely in the sky," and he would say it in such a way, with his words like velvet, that you would believe him, because his smile would be so bright that you could not imagine a lonely man to imitate it. He would sing his music softly, as only a God of Music could, and you would not be able to understand him. You would not be able to make out the words, nor the meaning, but you would believe the sound of it to be sweet and not at all sorrowful. But it was sorrowful, wasn't it? Indeed, the words were of a language that only a God of the Sun and Morning could understand, and isn't that lonely? If no one could replicate your music, your song, your meaning for life, then you would definitely be lonely. Furthermore, in the light of the sun, no one could make out his expression. The sunrise, mid-day glare and evening light was always behind him, casting shadow over his face. No one could see it, but it was assumed his terribly beautiful face was wearing a content expression even if it wasn't so. He would think, "How could you not be lonely in the sky?" The birds could not sing with him, for they did not know the words, and the wind couldn't reach him there. As a man who left plague in his wake as well as quiet music, no one touched his arm as a means of comfort. Olympus wasn't high enough for him to be content, and he was often too preoccupied with chasing the sun around the sky. The sun didn't know his song, either. It was quiet, and Apollo was lonely.

Such was the way for Enjolras, a revolutionary man with the face of a God of the Sun and Music and everything both beautiful and horrific, who would say, "You cannot be preoccupied with yourself." If he was lonely, he either didn't notice or didn't dwell on it. Of course, what did it matter if he was lonely? His little life didn't count at all, nor did it matter or was it significant to anyone else. Indeed, his personal turmoil was of no concern to anyone but himself, and no one could see it from how high he stood. At least, that was what he told himself and what he believed; though he did not understand the reason behind the glances from Grantaire, similar to that of a God of Wine and the giving-way to temptation as he so accurately personified, and did not think them to be as understanding as they actually were. What could a God of Madness understand of a God of the Sun? Nothing, of course, nothing at all; nothing but loneliness and the smallest amount of regret. And both Apollo and Enjolras would deny feeling both of those things, but he would understand, as would Dionysus and Grantaire, that they were true.

Dionysus, on the other hand, would openly admit to feeling his loneliness and sadness. Even gods weren't perfect, he would say, and he would laugh at his uselessness as one of the divine and wonder how he was allowed to remain on Olympus, as though it wasn't obvious. And he would drink, and he would laugh, and he would forget his poetry by the time morning came. The words he would say, whether sober or intoxicated, were more stanza than prose, and there was music in the way that he laughed with his bitterness. How could anyone remain sure of anything as Dionysus spoke his song of nothing after death and the beauty of wine? No one could, possibly, if Apollo wasn't around; Apollo who had long about bought the promises of Elysium and eternity of Zeus. Apollo would always remind Dionysus to remember to pay the ferryman if he hadn't spent it on drink, and Dionysus would just laugh again and ask where the river would take him. For Apollo, were he mortal, he would be taken to Elysium; for Dionysus, were he fool enough to die, he would sneak off the boat and take a sip of the water.

"You've had more to drink than all of Paris, and yet you still manage to remain thirsty," Marius joked as Grantaire emptied yet another bottle. Grantaire laughed in a good-natured manner and threw an arm around Marius' shoulder. "Without wine I wonder if you'd even be a man."

"I'd be a man, but no longer a God," Grantaire replied loudly, raising a sloppily refilled glass and wearing a lopsided grin. "Only a fool would deny Dionysus a drink on the night of a dance."

"Enjolras has done so before," Combeferre chimed in, with his own smirk in the direction of their revolutionary leader. The man himself rolled his eyes, but made no remark. "Though, on that night, I do not recall if we were dancing."

"Ah, but is there fault in Apollo? Nay, it is not so, for he chases the sun and carries the sky on his back," Grantaire responded. "Though, I wonder, is it the sun he is chasing, or is it Artemis, who follows the moon. Or perhaps it is the moon who follows her? I do not know, the answer lies only with the sister of Apollo and her silver hair, for the moon would not easily tell one of it's secrets."

"It is not too late to deny you a drink, and I am not afraid to do so, even to the son of Zeus," Enjolras finally gave into the banter. "Dionysus is fond of rambling when music is yet to be heard."

"That remains to be the job of Apollo," Grantaire grinned, happy that he caught the attention of Enjolras. "Would you sing me songs of the mornings and sunsets?"

"You'd only question their beauty until every star is out."

"Such madness is fitting to my appearance, good monsieur, it would prove to be disappointing if I were to do anything less."

"I do not recall even Dionysus questioning the sun," Enjolras retorted.

"I would never question that which captures the attention of Apollo," Grantaire agreed. "I only question it's reason and it's 'why's and 'what's and 'for what purpose's, for no one can see the sun underground."

"If they are ash than they are closer than even Apollo."

When Grantaire and Enjolras bantered like this, it meant that it was time for that particular gathering to come to an end. One after one trickling out of the entrance of the Musain, until only Marius, Grantaire and Enjolras remained seated around a table. Marius glanced amusedly between the two of them before finally standing up, his chair scraping loudly against the floor. The sound caused Grantaire and Enjolras to look up at him in surprise, before looking around the room and realizing it's silence.

"All of Paris is asleep," Marius informed them. He bowed jokingly to the two of them. "I pray you two may find your way to your beds in the darkness."

"No one sets my soul on fire the way you do," Enjolras grumbled once he and Grantaire were alone, the distant sound of the door slamming shut fading away into silence. "I was silent the entirety of the night before you spoke of gods and music."

"I will take that as the highest of praise," Grantaire said, in a tone that was far more gentle than his usual voice. He leaned across the table until his lips were just a whisper away from those of Enjolras, a playful smirk playing at the corner of his mouth. "If I may set Apollo on fire, who plays with the sun as sport, then may of the Gods on Olympus have mercy on me."

And he kissed Enjolras after that. Not for long, and not too deeply, but enough for Grantaire to reach to put a hand on his cheek and tuck a stray curl behind his ear and smile against his lips. When he pulled back a few moments after, Enjolras murmured, "Your lips are sweeter without the wine."

"I'd not the courage to do so without the wine."

"There is some madness to that," Enjolras leaked back into their former argument. "For I have yet to refuse you."

"I did not know Apollo to be a liar."

"I have yet to refuse your kisses on a night like this, and most recently, where the sight of you and the sound of your voice makes it difficult to breathe."

"Such as Apollo, to make music with your words." And Enjolras kissed Grantaire again, because while Grantaire's lips weren't quite as sweet when coated with wine, they were still sweet, indeed.

In a story written by a God of sunshine of medicine and sickness and music, Apollo fell in love with a God of madness and tricks. His lips tasted of ambrosia and wondered if it was a sin for a god to kiss another with such fervor. But it was fine, it was fine, as long as the sun and the moon didn't see.

"Now, Apollo, may I take you to bed?"

* * *

**Author's Note:**

I COULDN'T RESIST OKAY.


End file.
